


The Mystery of the Dirty Night Clown

by The_Almighty_Ro



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Gore, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Almighty_Ro/pseuds/The_Almighty_Ro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set nebulously in the late seventies, Karkat is a hard boiled detective with an attitude who takes Gamzee’s case when the man blows into his office one October morning. As he fights to clear his client’s name in a recent gruesome murder, he finds himself caught in the middle of an old religious ritual to summon the Mirthful Messiahs.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery of the Dirty Night Clown

**Author's Note:**

> Main Round Two entry for the HSWC to the tune of Genre-Blending. My themes were mystery, hard-boiled noir, and religious horror.

It was late October when you met him, splayed out in your desk chair with his hands folded over his stomach like he belonged there. He was long and thin, nothing but bones and sharp edges covered in thin skin and worn, baggy clothes, and he smiled at you like he was happy to see you and you were old friends - which was fucking ridiculous, because there was no way in hell you would ever associate yourself with a homeless clown cultist who looked like he hadn’t had a decent bath in days. Nontheless, the smile he offered you was serene and warm and he tossed you a little wave to sweeten it.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, private eye, and you are about to embark on a journey that you can never turn back from, with a man you have never met, to prove his innocence. And you are thoroughly, completely, and utterly fucked.

* 

Jane Crocker peers up at you from behind her glasses, rouged lips pressed into a tight line as she processes your request. It’s been nearly six months since the last time you blundered in here demanding files on a case, four since you went and completely mucked it up and nearly dragged her down with you. You honestly feel terrible that you’re about to ask her for yet another favor you may never repay, but you know that she’ll also never turn you down either; women very rarely ever become cops, let alone detectives, and you know for a fact that she’s living vicariously through you until such a time as she can prove herself.

(Which is bullshit because Jane is smart as whip and helped solved maybe half your cases for you with her own deductions and sleuthing.)

"Karkat…" she begins, unsure, "I’m not sure it’s such a good idea that you help this man. Haven’t you been paying attention to the papers?"

You haven’t. You’ve been too busy nursing your wounded pride since you fucked up four months back and nearly got yourself - and your client - killed.

"Look Jane," you say, try to level a hard glare at her that you know won’t so much as ruffle her feathers and she just raises perfectly plucked eyebrows at you, "I haven’t had a case in months because I fucked up and, despite appearances, this guy is going to pay me really fucking well. So please, for once, cut me some fucking slack and just get me the files on this case so I can get out of your hair."

She clucks her tongue at you, eyes disproving as she gets up. “Fine, but I want you to stay in touch this time. There’s something very strange going on here and you have the worst tendency to get into trouble!”

All you can offer her is a hollow promise that you will but she accepts it at face value, thank fuck, and hurries back into the file room to get what you asked for. You’ve been terrible at tracking the news, but you know better than to accept what the papers spoon feed you and figure that at least this way you can get all the facts and get up to speed on the case before you do any real investigating. It occurs to you that you can simply ask your client all about why he’s been charged with the murder of a local mechanic and the kidnapping of his sister, but you brush it aside. Clients have a tendency to lie when they have secrets to keep and he most assuredly has some fucked up skeletons in his closet from what you can tell.

Jane hands you a box filled with notes and files, puffing a strand of her curled hair out of her face as she smiles weakly at you. 

“This is all of it I think.”

You accept it gratefully and turn to leave when she stops you.

"Karkat…please be careful. I have a bad feeling about this man," she murmurs softly.

Fondness seizes you by the throat and your voice comes out gruff around it. “Always am.”

* 

His name is Gamzee Makara and he’s a street performer.

Or at least that’s what he tells you, but you’ve been around enough to know that he’s no street performer you’ve seen before. Either he’s just blown into town or he’s lying and, despite the fact that you really don’t want to, you force yourself to believe the former. He hasn’t done anything (truly) suspicious (other than break into your office in the middle of the night to wait you out), but you’ve admittedly had stranger clients (maybe) with even stranger ways of getting in contact with you. Besides, you’re not a cop anymore so it isn’t like you can arrest him for breaking and entering.

"So’s I was sayin’, these motherfukers keep hounding a brother about another brother he ain’t even been meeting with," he rambles. He’s fidgeting in the hard chair you kicked him into after your initial shock (outrage) had worn off and you’d gotten a proper answer as to who the fuck he was, long, bony fingers twisting around themselves as he speaks. You get the feeling that he physically can’t keep still, is used to speaking in big, grand gestures meant to amaze and attract, and you suppose you can sort of see that maybe his description of himself might hold some weight. "Says they got some little brother what seen me leaving this motherfucker’s shop covered in blood, and I tell them, ‘Nah, bro, that ain’t me! Ain’t even been in that part of town before!’"

You hum as you take notes. “And did they ask you if you had an aliby? Or someone to corroborate your story?”

He looks at you with wide, surprised eyes, like you just read his mind and you want to drag your hand down your face in exasperation. Clearly he doesn’t know how this works.

"Yeah bro, how’d you know?"

"Call it intuition," you tell him tersely. Already he’s trying your patience and you’d turn him out and let him go down if you didn’t need this case so bad. In all honesty you don’t even know if you can prove he’s innocent, but he’s already promised to pay you even if you can’t because ‘that’s just what a motherfucker does’. God you need a drink. "Go on."

He nods eagerly and jumps back into his story, surprisngly verbose for such a social reject and something in the back of your mind niggles; you push it away for now.

*

 “Well look what the cat dragged in. Didn’t think you were still working the scene Vantas.”

You grimace into your drink and set it aside. You’d been hoping that you could comb the area and interview witnesses without any trouble, but apparently you still have the worst luck in the world because standing before when you turn is none other than Dave Fucking Strider.

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

"Strider," you greet and pat yourself on the back for sounding cool and collected. It may not last for long, but at the very least you can say you started out civil; it’s really more than anyone can ask of you when it comes to this douchelord. "Didn’t think you were still playing cops and robbers."

A blonde eyebrow arches high enough over his ridiculous shades for you to see, and you don’t need the rest of his dumb face to be visible to know he’s unimpressed with your display. Fuck him, if that’s how he wants to play it then you are fully prepared to be a little shit until he fucks off.

"What do you want," you snap. Dave holds up his hands in defense, palms upturned placatingly. For some reason you see dark, thin fingers instead of pale ones and get more than a little irritated. 

“Chill, bro, I heard you were in the area working a case and came to see how you were doing.”

This time it’s you who levels him with an unimpressed stare and he shrugs.

"It’s the truth. What case are you working?"  
You give some thought about whether or not you should tell him, him being a cop still and also an asshole before you shrug. “The Makara case,” you say, “The poor bastard wandered into my office and practically begged me to help him. It was really pathetic.”

Something shifts in Dave all of a sudden and you think maybe telling him was a terrible idea. Silently you rage at Past You, the stupid asshole, because he never knows when to keep his mouth shut when it counts. Also because he can’t read the atmospere to save his life. Dave takes the stool next to you, expression stony. “Bro I think you should let this one go,” he says simply.

Oh hell no.

"So you and your shitty precinct can solve it and take the credit? Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck them in every orifice available, this case is mine!" People are staring at you as your voice rises in volume and it’s only through sheer force of will that you make yourself stop there beore you can get anymore colorful and verbose.

For his part Dave waits patiently before leaning in. His mouth is a thin line, like Jane’s had been when you’d requested everything she had on the case, and you think if any more people purse their lips at you you’re going to flip every last shit you have left. Which is decidedly not much at this point in time. “Dude,” he breathes so that only you hear. “I am not saying that so I can steal your case. I don’t even fucking want it.”

You frown at him, mildly pacified by his words; Dave never lies when it counts.

“Then what?”

He does a curious thing with his eyes, rolling them even as he flicks them toward the back exit of the bar because he knows you’re close enough to see through the impenetrable black lenses of his shades and gets up to leave. You follow, not because you want to, but because something is clearly up and you are going to get to the bottom of it. Strider is a cagey bastard even on his best days, but this is different; this is….worrying. You think he might actually be serious.  Gamzee’s wide, purple eyes flash through your mind (pleading, desperate, dark and lovely) and you get up to follow your former collegue out back.

What he has to say is understandably distressing.

*

A few days into your investigation of the murder of one Equius Zahhak, after staying up all night pouring over the files Jane had graciously given you, you come home to your shitty apartment and find an evelope penned to your door. This is nothing new; usually, when you’re working a particularly big case, you get all kinds of letters and threats warning you away. It’s basic operating procedure you’ve come to find. It also lets you know that you’re on the right track.

However, you never recieve warnings this early into an investigation, so it’s with infinite care that you unpin it from your door and quietly hurry inside.

The envelope is innocuous enough, unmarked and appears clean for the most part. You hold it up to the dim light as if it can help you discern it’s contents (a fruitless endeavor, but at least you tried); you even give it an experimental sniff just to be sure. It smells of grease paint and the spicy herbs that clung to Gamzee’s skin when he swept you up in a tight embrace after you finally relented about helping him.

(You wonder why you remember that for all of two seconds before ripping it open in a fit of frustration.) 

Inside is a simple, square card with a picture of two red and green snakes entwining printed into the thick paper. When you turn it over, you nearly drop it in horror.

'The Messiahs are coming for you,' it says in messy scrawl, 'And they will judge you for the blasphemer you are.'

It’s printed in dried blood.

*

"A cult!" You spit at Gamzee as you slam him against the door of your office. The window rattles and the wood shrieks in protest but you don’t care, you are angry and you are scared and you are not equiped to deal with this kind of shit - you shouldn’t have to! When you left the police force three years ago to set up shop, you thought you’d also left this crazy bullshit behind with it! "A fucking clown cult! A fucking clown cult that, for whatever pan shattering reason, has been following your useless ass around because you up and decided to vanish rather than blood out!"

Gamzee makes a soft, distressed noise and reaches for your face as if to pacify you. Your hands tighten in the worn fabric of his shirt before you let him drop, take a sort of satisfied joy in watching him crumple; you’re a vindictive little shit when you’re angry and cornered. He doesn’t so much as move to get away from your ire and just stares up at you with those wide, soft eyes that plead with you to understand but also refuse to reveal why you should. It makes you sick that you want to believe that he didn’t deliberately throw you to the proverbial wolves.

His voice is apologetic when he finally speaks. “Didn’t all get to thinking those motherfuckers would get to finding me here,” he says softly. His hand twitches like he’s going to reach for you again and you take a step back, glare ice cold as he swallows the urge and wills it to lay still and flat against the hard floor; he’s been getting touchy with you over the few weeks you’ve been at this case and you officially do not have the patience for it. “Didn’t think they’d kill a brother all ‘cause I got my ask on of him for some directions and take a chika neither.”

That gives you pause. “So you _were_ the last to see Zahhak alive!” you hiss.

Gamzee gives you a nervous sort of smile and moves slowly to hold his hands up between you as if he expects you to attack again; you’re not going to lie, you’re of the mind to. “Was lookin’ for a place to crash, brother was kind enough to point me in the direction of a halfway house some ways away as he was closing up. Went back the next morning to thank him and the motherfucker was hangin’ from the rafters with his guts split open and the wicked sigils painted on the walls with ‘em.” He swallows and looks away with a haunted look in his eyes. “So’s I cut the motherfucker loose, right? Didn’t want him all to bein’ motherfucking uncomfortable even though he’d already gone to the Dark Carnival, and I got the motherfuck out of there with his life juice all over me.”

Despite the way he worded it, you almost believe him. “Why didn’t you tell me this when you came to me?” you demand.

"Didn’t think you’d get your faith on with me, brother," is his soft reply. His eyes are still fixed firmly on his hands and for some reason you hate that you can’t see them, can’t see what he must be thinking; it bothers you to know he didn’t trust you either. "Got the sense that you had all kinds of experience sniffing out us bad motherfuckers."

It’s with a frown that you crouch down in front of him and grab his jaw firmly to make him look at you, ignoring the way he tries to flinch away. His eyes are so dark you feel lost with them finally on you. “Did you kill Equius Zahhak.”

He shakes his head despite your firm grip. “Nah, bro.”

Something in you unclenches at the way his voice is soft and honest; he knows what’s on the line for once and knows that if you feel he’s lying even just a little bit, then he’s out on his ass for the police and this cult to deal with. “Did you kidnap his younger sister Nepeta.”

Another head shake. “No, but…” he pause briefly and you can tell he’s weighing his options before his face sets into grim determination. “But I know who did.”

And that’s all you need to believe him.

*

Gamzee turns out to be surprsiningly forthcoming after that, though you suppose it has something to do with the threats you show him after you’ve let him go. His eyes go dark as he flips through them, from the first to the most recent, and it’s strange to see him look so angry all of a sudden. You think you’re going a little crazy because it’s been maybe a month since you’ve taken his case and you know you shouldn’t be feeling this warm over the fact that he’s very suddenly protective over you, but you are and you actually rather like it. You like the way his knuckles whiten as he clenches the arm of the chair you gave him, the way his dark eyes flick up to you every time he reads a new one, the way his lips wordlessly form your name as if he wants to say something but can’t find the right words.

Most of all, you like the way he stands suddenly after getting to the last little card and stalks over to you, strangely determined in his misplaced grace, eyes alight as he pulls you up and presses his lips to your’s in a bruising and demanding kiss. You both part reluctantly, but you have work you still need to do and as much as you would like to continue to have him kiss you senseless, you really can’t have him distracting you now. He understands and moves back to his seat with an easy, hungry smile. 

Once you’re situated again, he weaves you the tale of his sad life from childhood to now; he was born to an old family in the South, a line of religious freaks who had broken away from the church a few generations back to start their own for a pair of Mirthful Minstrels who would bring about the end of the world with the Dark Carnival. He says that there was supposedly a seer who had fortold of his birth as the sacrifice to his stupid gods, how his spilled blood would summon them so that they could judge the blasphemers and save the believers (who were really just his stupid family), and when he was finally born how they kept him doped up for years to make him soft and pliant come the time of reckoning.

You listen to all this with mounting horror, not because you believe this bullshit, but because he speaks about it so casually. He literally grew up in hell and he’s acting like it isn’t a big deal. When you ask him about it, he just shrugs and says it didn’t seem like a real issue up until recently when they ‘all up and started wanting to get their juju on’ and just smiles when you ask him what the fuck a juju was. Obviously there are still a few things he isn’t ready to disclose but that’s okay, you have all that you need for now.

He kisses you again outside your office as you’re closing up, long and slow and his fingers comb through your hair reverently until you moan into his mouth. It’s completely unfair what he’s doing to you, but you can only sit back and enjoy it until he pulls away with a shit-eating grin and says he’ll see you tomorrow. You curse at him halfheartedly and say the same and you watch him go with fondness rising in your chest like a flood until you feel like you’ll overflow. When he’s finally out of sight, your world goes black.

*

It’s the pain in the back of your head that wakes you first; at first you think it’s just a headache, you’re prone to a lot of them when you’re stressed, but as you slowly regain conciousness, you become aware of sharp throb and realize that some fucker brained you while you weren’t looking. It’s kind of a faraway realization that you nearly forget because you’re losing conciousness again, and that’s when the sobbing of a young girl wakes you second. Your eyes snap open and you see Nepeta Leijon, pinned to some sort of ancient flogging jut, for the first time.

It’s also that exact moment that some huge asshole in a lime green trench coat and painted skull raises a juggaling club and slams it into her skull over and over until there’s nothing but gore where he face used to be. You pass out with a scream stuck in your throat.

*

When you wake next, it’s to the same huge asshole smacking you hard across the face and you snarl at him despite how groggy you are. He grins at you with sharp teeth and pats your cheek in a mock attempt to soothe.

"You’re awake!" he says cheerfully. "It’s about fucking time. I would hate to disembowel. An unconcious sacrifice."  
His speech is a little stilted like he can’t get the flow right and when he turns to the table he apparently set up beside while you were out of it, you notice one of his legs is prosthetic. He had to have had some serious cash to get it and you feel really stupid for noticing that instead of the room you’re in. You blame what most assuredly is a terrible concussion.

"What," you start and you have to stop to hack up half a lung because your throat is dry and feels like sandpaper. How long were you out? "What am I doing here?" you manage to croak.

He turns to you again and there’s a sickle in his hand; you can feel your stomach drop to your feet.

"Because you’re a sacrifice. Obviously," he snorts.

You swallow around your heart as it hammers in your throat. “I thought Gamzee - Makara - was?”

His eyes are a strange crimson you note as he watches you, wide grin slipping into a scowl. “So that idiot spilled. The fucking beans huh.” He turns again to grab something from the table and mutters under his breath that sounds suspiciously like angry Spanish. “He’s half right. But I’m not actually going to gut him. Much as I want to.”

You can feel yourself blink. “What?” 

When he turns to you again, it’s with a blue fletched arrow instead of the sickle. The thought that you’re about to become target practice flashes through your mind second before he jams it into your side, smile gleeful as you scream.

"He’s going to be our vessel."

*

You don’t remember much beyond that through the haze of pain as he tortures you, but you do remember the exact moment Gamzee slams into this tiny, dark room he’s got you strung up in. You remember because it was the angriest you’d seen him in the short time you’d known him and he was practically vibrating with it.

"CALIBORN!" he boomed and the man in the painted skull turned to him with a smug look in his red eyes.

"You’re here. Which is good because I was. Just about to kill him," he greets. He doesn’t move from where he is in front of you, which you think might be good on his part because you don’t know what Gamzee would do if he saw how beaten and bloody you were. "We can commence the ritual now."

"We ain’t commencin’ nothing motherfucker," he snarls as he takes a threatening step forward. Caliborn for his part seems unimpressed with the threat. "Let my brother go and I won’t rip out your motherfucking throat."

Caliborn scoffs and drags the bloodied knife in his hand down your cheek, leaving a deep gash behind. You scream.

"How about no," he hums and does it again to your cheek. You’d black out again if you could, but somehow he’s made so that you can’t so you catch the way Gamzee’s eyes darken and his lips curl in outrage.

He takes another step forward. “You best abide my brother, I ain’t fucking kidding around this time,” he snarls.

"Neither am I. You chose this fool. Which makes him the perfect sacrifice. To summon the Messiahs."

That stops him and you can swear that he stops breathing. Gamzee doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to for the silent question to be heard. The silence is suffocating as they stare at each other and you could swear that his eyes a glowing faintly in the near darkness, but there’s no way that could be happening. It’s just the light catching in them the same way that it does with cats. Except that human eyes can’t refract light like that can they?

That glowing, violet gaze is leveled at you -

CLOSE YOUR EYES BROTHER.

\- just as Caliborn drives the knife into your heart.

*

For a very long time you are floating through darkness, numb from the pain of your death and deaf to the primal scream that rips itself from Gamzee’s throat as he watches the life bleed from your eyes. He makes to rush your murderer with eyes aglow and flashing that same violet before your world went black, but then stops and falls to his knees with his fingers digging into his thick hair. You’re not actually sure you know how all this is happening, being dead now, but when he screams again - louder, more terrified than angry now as his nails scrabble at his scalp - and the yellow tips of what most assuredly are horns start twisting and arching up through flesh and hair you feel like you’re dying again.

Caliborn, meanwhile, is watching all this with malicious glee. The knife he stabbed you with is dangling in his loose grip and he seems to be muttering something under his breath, probably some sort of freaky prayer, as he watches his new god transform in front of his very eyes. When Gamzee stops shaking, when his skin has gone completely gray and the horns glisten with red and purple gradient from where they sprouted from his head, the asshole rips the skull from his head to reveal his hideously deformed face and sweeps toward him.  
Despite your strange awareness, you can’t seem to hear what is being said. All you know is he kneels in front of Gamzee and seems to whisper at him reverently, reaching out to tilt his head up so he can get a good look at him. He says something else and the haze lifts from Gamzee’s abergine eyes like a sunrise.

And then he rips Caliborn’s throat out with his teeth.

The surprise you feel is faint and far away, like you looking at all of this from the otherside of a glass window with the sound muffled. Every thing feels muffled really, but this especially as he turns that animal gaze toward you and steps over the dead man’s corpse toward you. His touch on your split cheek is cold and gentle as he leans in to whisper in your remaining ear in a language you have never heard before; when he pulls away there are purple trails streaming down his hollow cheeks. It’s that that finally snaps you back into your broken body as the darkness clears and you let out a high pitched whine.

His hands are on you all over again as he all but rips you from the jut and pulls you into his arms, fingers pressing over every wound with worship written all over his face. You don’t know why and you don’t want to know why he’s looking at you like that or why it feels like your body is on fire, but you manage to turn your face into his hand and press a kiss to his wrist and revel in the noise he makes at the contact. Somehow he has you pulled up against him with his lips pressed against your’s and you are too tired and broken to tell him to quit it.

"Gamzee," you manage when he pulls away, "What-?"

He shushes you with a finger preessed to your lips. “Ain’t a thing brother. Ain’t a motherfucking thing.” He glances behind him at Caliborn’s prone body as it seeps blood all over the floor before turning back to you with an adoring smile. “But we need to get our move on soon. Made an awful racket we did, someone probably got their notice on.”

You nod and allow him to help you up and drag you out the door. As you you pass one of the filthy mirrors hanging from the wall, you see yourself for the first time; your eyes are red and your skin is the same grey his is now.

"My miraculous motherfucker," he coos at you later as he takes you on the tiny mattress of a cheap hotel room, "Wonderous red brother, all filled with light." The two of you rock together and you whisper his name like a strangled oath as he brings you to oblivion. "Godhood looks fucking beautiful on you."

**Author's Note:**

> This turned into a monster by the time I finally finished it, and it still isn't actually exactly what I wanted to do. Maybe I'll rewrite it later, idk, hope you enjoyed.


End file.
